The Agreement
by CrimeLush
Summary: At the tender age of 18, Freddie made a pact with Sam Puckett.  At the time, he couldn't have forseen the far-reaching ramifications of their arrangement, couldn't have guessed that an innocent agreement would permanently alter the course of his life.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly or any of its characterizations, though it'd be pretty sweet if I did. I envy you, Dan Schneider._

_This story is rated 'M' for strong language, sexual references and occasional allusions to drug and alcohol abuse. Consider yourselves warned._

**_Prologue_**

I racked my brain, desperate to inflict on her the same degree of pain her indifference was causing me. She sat there, smiling at me, and it was infuriating. I wanted to scream until I choked on my words or ram my fist through the window to the left of her. I paced, biting my tongue until my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood.

She giggled. Did she _really_ just giggle? Is this fucking amusing to her? "Relax," she purred in her typical nonchalant Sam-tone. "You'll give yourself an aneurysm."

That did it. I felt it snap. What "it" was, I'm not exactly sure. All I know is that the threads of sanity I had been clinging to were severed in that moment. My anger burned with a fury so intense, flashes of light clouded my vision. "No!," I screamed, raising my fist and slamming it against the table with such force that a cracking sound resonated throughout the tiny apartment. I wasn't sure if it was the table or the fragile bones of my hand that had shattered but, in that instant, I didn't care. She jumped, the smile leaving her face, and I felt satisfaction in every one of my synapses, but I wasn't finished. No, I was just getting started.

"I am over this," I hissed, gesturing between the two of us with my non-injured hand. "I am done with your apathy and your selfishness and your, your fucking _mind games_." I gasped for air, the exertion of my anger leaving me breathless. She was silent, staring at the table, her expression unreadable. That wasn't enough for me. I wouldn't stop until I knew that she felt _something_, for Christ's sake. The least she could do was retaliate.

I slammed my hands against the table, palms down, and lowered my face so that it was level with hers. I was close enough to her that my rapid breaths were shifting the hairs dusting her forehead. Still, she refused to meet my eyes. "Sam." My voice was low and menacing and unfamiliar to my ears. "Sam!" I punctuated the word with an open-fisted blast to the table. It elicited another jump from her, and I was finally met with a piercing stare, so icy I would have shivered if not for the fact that my blood was already boiling.

"You are an insecure little girl," I jeered. "How many people do you think would be willing to deal with your bullshit, day in and day out?" I could see that she was repeatedly clenching and unclenching her jaw, but still she remained silent. "You're more baggage than you're worth." I knew that I was taking it too far, that I was saying things I'd regret, but I couldn't stop. The voracious ache within me wouldn't subside until I knew that I'd gotten to her. "You are seriously fucking _mentally ill_." I nearly spat the words in her face.

I hated to admit it but, when she started to cry, it felt _good_. I knew that I had broken her rigid exterior to reach the core of her being. Her body shook as she stared at me, the tears flowing freely now. I expected her to kick and to scream and to swear. I _welcomed _it, so you can imagine my surprise when she stood noiselessly, the scraping of her chair against the linoleum and my ragged breaths the only discernable sounds. Her gaze remained fixed to mine as she brushed past me. I watched as she gathered her belongings and crossed the kitchen, shoulders squared and nose in the air despite the tears that stained her flushed cheeks.

With one hand pressed to the door, she paused, hesitantly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. When she spoke, it wasn't the emotional display I'd been yearning for. Instead, it was a blow to the chest, forcing the air from my lungs in an audible 'whoosh.' "Goodbye, Freddie."

I observed, speechless, as she pushed into the hall, the door swinging in her wake. I clutched at my stomach and sank to the chair she had vacated moments before. My heart pounded, lights dancing before my eyes, as I felt the blood rush from my brain. Overwhelmed by the sudden urge to vomit, I dropped my head between my knees and screamed. It was a strangled sound, trapped by the lump in my throat. _When? _My mind demanded an answer. _When were we reduced to this? When had we allowed our goddamned selfish agendas to destroy what we had so painstakingly built? _

In a horrifying moment of clarity, I accepted what I'd intuitively known from the start, from the day we'd made the agreement. We couldn't go back. We could only move forward. First, though, I needed to understand just where the hell we'd gone wrong, where exactly in our tumultous journey we'd lost our way.

**A/N: First off, if you're reading this, _thank you_! I've enjoyed writing for as long as I can recall, but it's always been sort of a private thing for me. This is my first attempt at sharing my work with others, so I truly appreciate anyone who has taken the time to read this. You can blame my sudden openness on Sam and Freddie, BTW. They're too freaking meant-to-be not to explore.**

**Secondly, I know that this was a bit heavy, but I don't want you to think that the entire story will be angst-ridden. I enjoy a fair share of fluff, but I like to portray the realistic side of relationships as well. I hope that anyone who reads the entire story will be able to take _something_ from it. Maybe it'll make you laugh, maybe it'll make you cry, and maybe it'll leave you feeling warm and fuzzy. Hopefully it'll do all three.**

**I have some semblance of the structure of the story and have written snippets here and there. Now, I just have to focus on tying all of it together. This will obviously be a multi-chapter story, but I couldn't begin to guess at its length, nor when it'll be finished. I am a busy_, busy_ girl, so I can't make any promises. I just hope that you decide to wait it out. I think it'll be worth it.**


	2. Chapter One

_Disclaimer: I'm not Dan Schneider. I don't own Freddie Benson or Sam Puckett. How funny would it be, though, if Dan wrote dramatic fan fiction as an outlet for all of the ideas he has that'd never fly with Nickelodeon?_

_This story is rated 'M' for strong language, sexual references and occasional allusions to drug and alcohol abuse. Consider yourselves warned._

_**Chapter One**_

Samantha Puckett. How can I begin to describe my relationship with Sam? It's. . ._complex_, to say the least. I guess it always has been. You'd think that, over time, it'd become easier to get a handle on my feelings for her, her feelings for me. Not so. Instead, it has grown increasingly difficult.

Had you asked the twelve-year old version of myself his thoughts on Sam, he'd have responded without a breath of hesitation. She was the bane of his existence. He tolerated her (okay, he _tried_, anyway) for Carly's sake. That was the extent of it. Had you had asked my fifteen-year old self, he'd have offered a similar response, though I suspect that anyone paying close enough attention would catch the flicker behind his eyes, the slight crack in his voice as he spoke. Today, I'm eighteen, an adult. I could lie and tell you that she's still the bane of my existence, but I doubt that anyone would buy it. I don't, and I'm fairly certain that she doesn't either. In the seven years that Samantha Puckett has been a near-constant presence in my life, I have come to realize that the complexity of what I feel for her can't easily be translated into words.

Last year, I was given an assignment to prepare an essay on the three people who'd influenced me most. Determining who those people were was easy. My mother. My closest friend, the lovely Carly Shay. And, finally, my. . ._Sam_. You see, I can't even affix a title to her. My friend? Sure. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But how could I logically explain that this 'sometimes friend' was able to both elevate me to levels no one else appeared capable of while simultaneously reminding me that I am nothing if not an imperfect being? Totally impossible, right?

The relationships I share, respectively, with my mom and Carly are _ordered_. They make sense. Don't get me wrong - neither my mom nor Carly are simple beings, but they operate in a way that's familiar to me, comfortable. We inherently _get_ one another. I appreciate structure. I may possess a deep-rooted desire to occasionally test the waters, but control is ingrained in me. In retrospect, I'd imagine that it was Carly's similarities that attracted me to her initially (well, that and her ridiculously shiny hair and sparkling eyes).

On the other hand, understanding my relationship with Sam to the degree that I could coherently describe it was, frankly, insurmountable. It's not that I don't care for her. I do. It's just that the ways in which we relate to one another are anything but conventional. This may sound absurd, but hear me out. Somehow, when I'm in her presence, the sensation of my every human function is intensified. I can feel the blood as it moves through my veins, the expansion of the alveoli as my lungs fill with air, the contraction of the ventricles with each solid heartbeat. It's as if she makes me acutely aware of my own existence. I blame it on the adrenaline, but I never feel more _alive _than I do when she's near, regardless of whether her focus is positive or negative.

My entire life, I've embraced structure and control. Each moment has been comprised of agendas and _reason_. Though I find comfort in these familiarities, they overwhelm me at times. Life is unpredictable. And really, does it _ever_ make sense? Attempting to plan for the inevitable curveballs and then finding justification for life's twists can drive the most logical person mad. And it's in those instances, when I feel like I am suffocating, when my control begins to slip, that the insanity that personifies Sam is the only thing that feels sane to me.

So, it's for those reasons and perhaps more that I found myself standing on the other side of the door to Sam's room at nearly 3:00 one morning, late in May, hesitating only briefly before rapping gently against the wood. Sure, it takes more than a soft knock to wake Sam, but I had to start somewhere. When, not surprisingly, the interior of the room remained silent, I tried the knob and found that the door was unlocked.

"Sam?" I whispered, opening the door no more than a couple of inches. Contrary to what I vehemently insist whenever she falls asleep in my vicinity, Sam typically doesn't snore, but I could hear deep, melodic breathing, so I knew that my feeble attempts at waking her thus far had failed.

"Sam?" I called, a bit louder this time. I peered through the crack of the door and saw that she was swathed in blankets, her face buried in the pillow. Sometimes, especially during the warmer months, she undresses in her sleep. I simply wasn't prepared to approach a half-naked Sam, as much for the unpredictability of my teenaged hormones as for the safety of my extremities. Satisfied that she was, at the very least, covered by bedding, I opened the door a bit wider and crept noiselessly into the room. As I lowered myself to the edge of the bed, I took advantage of the rare moment of tranquility, watching as her chest rose and fell in time with her rhythmic breathing. She looked angelic as she slept, blonde curls forming a soft halo that framed her crown. She stirred then, as innately aware of my proximity as I often found myself of hers.

"Wake up, Sam." My voice was hoarse from lack of use.

She lifted her head from the pillow, eyes fluttering as they strained to adjust to her surroundings. Seeing me, she groaned and dropped her face back to the pillow. "Whadya want, Benson?"

"I need you to take a walk with me."

"What the hell time is it?" Her voice was muffled against the fabric.

"It could be noon. That's about the time you usually get up, right?"

She lifted her head again, this time glancing lazily at the window across the room. "Noon, huh? My, it's awfully dark out there for so late in the day."

"Yeah, well. . . I come bearing gifts." I distracted her, waving a baggie filled with bacon under her nose. She dropped her gaze to the bag, and I could see in the nearly imperceptible twitch of her eyes that she was preparing to lunge for it. I expertly yanked it from her reach with a flick of my wrist as she snatched for it, grasping at air. I had learned to read her in that way. On occasion, though, I still pretended that my reflexes weren't an even match for hers.

"Give it," she demanded, scrambling to her knees, hand outstretched. The blanket pooled to her lap, and to both my relief as well as my disappointment, I saw that she was fully dressed in a tank top and mismatched boxers.

I stood then, grabbing her wriggling hand with one of my own and pocketing the bag of bacon with the other. "I'll give it to you if you come with me."

She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. "What do you need me for?"

_I need you to tell me that my world won't crumble to pieces if I admit that my future is a blank slate. I need you to tell me that I don't have to be afraid of the unknown. I need you to tell me that you'll remain a constant in the chaos that lies ahead. _That was what I _wanted_ to say. Instead, I shrugged. "I couldn't sleep, and bacon doesn't work on Carly or Spencer." She knew it was a lie, that she was actually my first choice as a confidant that night, and so I didn't feel bad for pretending otherwise.

With an audible huff, she smacked my hand and made an exaggerated show of climbing from the bed, nearly throwing herself to the floor in the mass of blankets. When her ankle got caught in the duvet, she cursed and kicked it aside.

I laughed in spite of her anger. "I didn't know that a comforter could be an asshole."

She shot me a death glare as she searched blindly for a pair of flip flops she had tossed haphazardly near the bed. "For your sake, that'd better be full-fat bacon, none of that healthy chizz Crazy makes you eat."

I patted my pocket. "This here be nothin' but pig."

"Good." She slid her feet into the neon green sandals and ushered me from the room.

It was the Saturday before Memorial Day, and we had decided to spend the long weekend at Socko's cabin on the Snoqualmie River, "we" being me, Sam, Carly and Spencer. We considered the trip our final hurrah before we became consumed by exams, prom and graduation, not to mention our final web show. My stomach churned at the mere thought of it, and I swallowed, forcing the nausea down. It was my fear of all of these changes that had kept me from sleep that particular night and numerous others prior to that.

We snaked through the cramped living quarters of the cabin, fumbling in the dark. Although the living space was limited, there were ample bedrooms for the four of us as well as two bathrooms, one for the girls and one for the guys.

As we stepped into the uncharacteristically warm air, I closed the door behind us, wincing as it groaned in protest. The cottage stood approximately fifty feet from one of the river's many tributaries, a small boat secured to its weathered dock.

"Where to?" Sam asked, running her hands over her bare arms despite the mugginess of the night. Suddenly, remembering the bacon, she punched me in the shoulder. "And gimme my bacon."

I removed the bag from the pocket of my pajama pants and tossed it to her. I was desperate for any escape from my obsessive inner monologue, so it didn't matter much where we went, but I hitched my chin toward the dock. "Down to the water?"

"Works for me," she mumbled around a mouthful of pork and grease.

We weaved through overgrown grass and wildflowers as we made our way to the water's edge. I eyed the dock from afar, unsure of its stability. Sam, of course, wasn't phased by its appearance and clomped noisily across the warped planks before dropping to the edge, feet nearly skimming the uneven surface of the water. I followed hesitantly, lowering myself next to her in a much gentler fashion.

We sat in silence for several minutes, save for the sounds of nature. And Sam's chewing. In the wooded area to the left of us, there was a cacophony of buzzing and chattering from the various insects and small animals that inhabited the area. There was also the sound of the water lapping at the rocks that surrounded the dock. The scene was peaceful, but it wasn't enough to halt the rapid activity of my brain.

When she finished the last slice of bacon, Sam crumpled the bag and held it out to me. Apparently it was my responsibility to dispose of it, so I took it from her and shoved it back into the pocket I had removed it from moments before. The relative silence resumed for several minutes more until, finally, Sam stretched and dipped her toes, painted an angry red, into the water. "So, what's up?"

I glanced at her, but she was staring at her foot, watching as the water swirled over her toes. "What d'ya mean?"

"Well. . ." She shrugged. "I'm guessing you didn't drag me out here in the middle of the night just to feed me." With a smirk, she added, "Though I could get used to that."

Right. Of course she'd want to know what was troubling me to the point that I was willing to risk bodily harm to agitate a sleeping Sam. I mean, I _wanted_ to talk to her. That was why I'd brought her out there, right? But I couldn't find the words. I knew that she'd withdraw if I tried to discuss my thoughts and fears. Sam was always afraid that, by granting herself a glimpse of someone else's soul, she'd somehow expose her own.

Erring on the side of caution, I kept my tone casual. "I guess I'm kind of stressed." I watched her from the corner of my eye, attempting to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained blank. She'd make a damned good Poker player. "You know, about the future. . .," I added. Still no reaction. "I just can't sleep when I think too much."

She nodded, withdrawing her foot from the water and tucking it, along with the other, beneath her legs. She was quiet as she turned her gaze to me, examining my face. I silently chided myself for being easy to read and tried to shake her glance, instead focusing my attention on the dim lights from a cabin to the right of Socko's, but I could feel her eyes burning holes into the side of my head. "What exactly are you stressed about? You're going to Harvard. _Harvard_, for Christ's sake. Not only is it an Ivy League school, but it's across the friggin' country. You'll be 3,000 miles from Crazy and her tick baths."

That was just it. I'd be 3,000 miles from my mom. From Carly. From Spencer. From Gibby. From the blonde-headed demon to the left of me. My mom, at least, would _always_ be my mom. I didn't have to worry that my relationship with her would be impacted by the distance. But the others? I would cease to be a constant presence in their lives, as they would in mine. What if we drifted apart? By graduating, ending the web show, moving to Massachusetts, I would lose every bit of familiarity in one gut-wrenching instant. What if Carly and Sam and I became _those_ people? You know, the ones who are reduced to exchanging the requisite 'Happy Birthdays' and 'Merry Christmases' and other niceties via text messages and emails, the length of time between communications increasing from one to the next? What if I couldn't share in the most important moments of their lives? Engagements and job offers and pregnancies? Even worse than the casual friends whose interaction is limited to the sphere of technology, what if we became the type of people who are so self-involved that they forget to make time for the friends who, at one point, mattered most? What if - I choked on the thought - we never saw each other again?

These were the fears that had clouded my brain for months, ever since I'd been accepted to Harvard, ever since I'd made the realization that my time in Seattle was running short. Suddenly, I felt my breath catch in my lungs, my heartbeat accelerating. _No_, I thought. _Not now. Please, not now. _I turned to Sam, desperate for something, _anything_, that would slow my thoughts, but my vision blurred, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut. The pounding of my heart reverberated in my ears, and I struggled to breathe, but my lungs remained constricted.

"Benson?" The sound was muffled by the dissonance in my head. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat was tight, and I couldn't muster more than a pathetic squeak.

"Freddie?" Her voice was urgent now. She sounded almost. . ._concerned_. I sensed her scooting closer to me as a warm palm was pressed to my cheek. "Hey," she said. "Look at me."

I wanted to, but I couldn't open my eyes. Not yet. Instead, I focused on the sensation of her skin against mine, the rhythm of her breaths fanning the hair that had fallen to my forehead, her scent and, slowly, the pounding subsided. Small quantities of air seeped into my lungs. When I finally dared to open my eyes, my gaze met hers, concerned, confused. "I'm okay," I said. My voice was weak from the exertion of the past several minutes.

The concern left Sam's face, pale in the moonlight, anger taking its place. "What the _hell_ was that?" she cried, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me until my teeth rattled against each other.

"I-I don't know," I stammered. "I just freaked out for a second. I'm fine." I wasn't _fine_. That, I knew. Lately, I'd been "freaking out" with alarming regularity.

"Is that the first time that's happened to you?" she demanded, searching my face.

I couldn't lie to her. She'd be able to tell that I was lying, and then she'd hurt me. "No."

She shook her head in disbelief. "Since when?"

"I don't know!" I replied, growing agitated. I _knew_ that my behavior was abnormal; I didn't need someone else to point it out for me. "I guess it started happening a couple of months ago." I stared at the sky, refusing to make eye contact with her.

"And have you told anyone?" Her voice was calmer now, softer.

"My mom knows. She says it's nothing to be alarmed about. She "freaks out" from time to time, too, you know." I was fairly certain that comparing my mental state to my mother's wasn't the greatest idea, but she was the only person I'd confided in.

She scoffed. "Why am I not surprised that your _mom_ would consider that normal behavior?"

"Sam. . ."

"Listen to me," she barked, nudging me with her foot. "That was a full-blown anxiety attack. I don't know what's goin' on in that mind of yours, but you _need_ to relax. Look at what you're doing to yourself."

She was right. I _did_ need to relax, but how could I remain calm when I was losing control? I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, _I'm_ freakin' out, Carly is a bundle of nerves over graduation and preparations for the final web show, and you're just. . .you. Doesn't anything phase you?"

She chuckled humorlessly, leaning back against the dock, resting on her elbows. "Sure, things phase me."

"And?"

"And. . .I've learned that no amount of pissing and moaning or - using her fingers, she formed quotations in the air - "freaking out" will make life any less of a suck fest, so what's the point?"

I contemplated this. She had a point. My _anxiety attacks_, if that's what they were, wouldn't alter the future. I'd still be graduating, leaving Seattle. We'd have to end the web show either way. In allowing the stress to consume me, I was more likely to create an ulcer than to accomplish anything of significance. "So, what're you going to do?"

She tilted her head, blonde locks brushing against the dock. "About what?"

"Your future."

"Oh." She turned her attention to the water, quietly observing it for several moments before speaking. "Not much'll change for me. I'll probably still spend the majority of my time at Car-Spencer's. Or at the Groovy Smoothie. And, you know, Gibby's going to NSCC, so he'll be around."

Sam wore a tough façade, but I _knew_ that she was a bit softer beneath the rigid exterior, and I suspected that the notion of staying in place while those around her moved forward probably bothered her more than she'd let on. "Will you get a job?"

She nodded. "Yeah, eventually. I think I'd like to be a food critic."

I raised my eyebrow in amusement. "A food critic?"

"Shoosh, yeah! Getting paid to eat? I'm there." She was smiling, and it made me think that she never smiled enough. It was contagious, and I, too, smiled.

"I hate to burst your bubble," I started. "But I'm pretty sure you need some sort of degree to critique food." I'd been encouraging her to attend classes at one of the local colleges, but she had seemed pretty adverse to the idea thus far. I was hoping that I could use the food angle to my advantage.

"Huh. Well, scratch that idea, then."

"Aw, come on, Sam. Don't you _want_ to go to college?"

She scrunched her nose, shaking her head lazily from side to side. "Not really."

Her nonchalance was baffling to me, but it was nothing new. She'd always been essentially carefree, just living life as it happened. For that, I envied her, and I told her as much. "Sometimes, I wish I could be more like you."

She appeared to consider this for a moment before she sat forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, you _could_."

I wasn't exactly sure where she was headed with this, but she had captured my interest. "How so?"

"You need to relax, right? Be more carefree, maybe a bit spontaneous?"

I nodded slowly. "Sure. . ."

"And you keep telling me that I need to focus, right? That I should make some sort of plan or whatever for my future?" She grew animated, gesticulating wildly with her hands.

"Yeah. . ."

"Well, what if we made an agreement, here and now, to do exactly that?" In her excitement, she pulled herself to her knees. "I can teach you how to let loose from time to time, and you can teach me how to focus."

Fundamentally, Sam and I existed at polar opposites of the spectrum, and I couldn't deny that there were things that each of us could learn from the other, that perhaps we'd already begun to learn. Besides, her enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself readily agreeing with her. "Okay," I said, my mouth pulling up at the corners. "I'm in."

"Good," she said, jumping to her feet and extending a hand to me. Hesitantly, I took it, and she pulled me to my feet beside her.

"So, how's this gonna work?" I asked.

"You'll help me to plan for my future - "

I interrupted her. "Which'll include college courses?" My tone was hopeful.

She sighed. " - which _may_ include college courses."

"Sam. . ."

She groaned, rolling her eyes to the sky. "Fine. _But _you have to understand that my grades aren't exactly stellar, so don't expect me to go to some fancy school. I'll take a couple of courses at one of the local schools, _and _I get to pick the courses."

That was all I had asked of her, so I was pleased with those stipulations. "Deal. Now, what about me?"

"Hmmm. . ." She crossed her arms and tapped a finger against her chin. "Setting the rules for you might be a bit more difficult." I watched as she paced the dock, eyes narrowed in concentration. For someone who often refused to participate in the planning stages of the web show, she was a hell of a thinker. Finally, she came to a stop before me. "When we're together, you have to follow my lead. If I suggest something that I think will be beneficial to your current state of mind, you have to go along with it."

I was hesitant to agree to such general terms, especially terms that could potentially lead to physical distress or mortification. "I'm not so sure. . ."

"Within reason," she added quickly. "I won't make you do anything that I don't think will fulfill our purpose."

"And when we're not together?"

"Then all I ask is that, when faced with a situation that causes you anxiety, you ask yourself, 'What would Sam do?' and act accordingly."

That was fair enough, I figured. And, I decided, I had nothing to lose. My anxiety had taken control of my life, and the only way that I'd ever be able to regain control was if I learned to rebel against the very qualities that had been ingrained in me for as long as I could remember.

Sam was eyeing me expectantly, so I quickly shoved my reservations aside and extended a hand to her.

Her mouth curled into a broad grin, and she took my hand in hers, shaking it fervently.

"Deal," we said simultaneously.

"So, is this supposed to be, like, a secret?" I asked as she released my hand. I cringed inwardly at the idea of having to explain my anxiety to anyone who questioned my motives.

She nodded, as if she were able to read my thoughts. "For now, at least." She glanced at the moon, which had shifted significantly since we'd left the cabin. "I wonder what time it is."

"I think it was about 3:00 when I woke you up."

She dropped her gaze to mine, one corner of her mouth lifting in amusement. "Yeah, so much for noon."

I laughed. "Hey, I gave you bacon, so don't give me no lip, Puckett."

"Yeah, yeah." She waved her hand dismissively. "Listen, before we head inside, there's something I want to do."

"What?" I asked, a bit suspiciously.

"Well. . ." She toed the dock absentmindedly. "Consider this the first step in making you more like me." She stepped away from me then, grabbing the hem of her tank top and pulling it over her head in one swift motion.

Initially, I was awestruck as she stood before me in her boxers and a purple bra that, based on the amount of cleavage it was showcasing, was about five sizes too small. However, once the initial shock wore off, I quickly glanced away, shielding my eyes with one of my hands. "Uhhh, S-Sam. . ." I sputtered. "What the hell are you doing?" I knew that she wanted to teach me to relax, but undressing before me? At that particular moment, I felt anything but relaxed.

"We're going for a swim," she stated matter-of-factly. "And don't be such a prude. Like you've never seen the female anatomy before."

I felt my face flush as the blood flooded my cheeks. "I haven't - "

"Oh, please!" she cried, cutting me off. "You're a teenaged boy with teenaged hormones." She dropped her voice to a whisper as she stepped close enough to me that I could feel her breath against my neck. "Even a _good boy_,like Fredward Benson, is well acquainted with his right hand." She accentuated her point by trailing a finger over said hand.

The sensation that I was suffocating had returned, but this was a far cry from an anxiety attack. I was certain that the blood had vacated most of my vital organs and was collecting in a couple of choice areas, one of which was my face, burning like a raging inferno. "That's not true," I insisted defensively, but my voice trembled.

Sam laughed dryly. "Oh, right. I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"That you're left-handed," she cooed, taking my hand in hers and pulling it to my side, thus removing my shield. I instinctively forced my eyes shut.

"Ugh," she groaned. "Whatever. We're going for a swim. If you insist on being a gentleman, I'll let you know once I'm in the water."

Realizing belatedly that she intended to swim in water for which the temperature couldn't have been more than 50 degrees, I shook my head vehemently. "No way, Sam. I'm not swimming in that. It's freezing! Do you have any idea how serious hypothermia can be?"

"Yes, _Mrs. Benson_, but thank you for the reminder." With that, I heard a splash followed by a shriek and a smattering of giggles. "You can open your eyes now," she called breathlessly.

I opened my eyes slowly, one at a time, to find that she was treading water approximately ten feet from the dock. "You're crazy," I said. I noticed the small pile of clothes at the edge of the dock, the purple bra catching my eye. "Are you _naked_?" I asked incredulously.

"Duh. This water's cold. At least my clothes will be warm and dry. Now, get in here before my nipples fall off." She swiped a hand across the water, attempting to splash me, but most of the droplets fell short.

"I told you, I am _not_. . ."

"You agreed! You can't b-back out." Her teeth were starting to chatter. "Hurry up. I'm getting cold."

"Get out of there," I demanded. "You could die!"

"No." Always defiant. "I'm not getting out until you get in. This is for y-your own good. If you want to be responsible for m-my death. . ."

The girl was good. She knew exactly what to say and do to get her way. I gave a frustrated cry, kicking at a rock in defeat before pulling my thin t-shirt over my head. Tugging at the drawstring of my pants, I lifted an eyebrow pointedly. "Close your eyes."

"Fine," she muttered. "Closed."

I watched her for a moment, just to be sure, before kicking my sneakers to the side and removing my pants, glancing over my shoulder to ensure that the interior of the cottage remained dark. It felt unnatural, standing outside, completely nude. "Leave it to Sam," I grumbled to myself. I placed my clothes next to hers, fighting the urge to fold both sets of apparel.

"Okay, I'm coming in," I called, eyeing the dark water churning below the dock.

"J-just jump in. It'll make it easier. And h-hurry. I can't feel my l-legs."

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and cursed myself for thinking that an agreement with Sam Puckett could ever be harmless before springing off of the dock and plunging into water colder and blacker than I'd imagined. It stung like thousands of needles against my skin as I struggled to reach the surface. Finally, my hands and face broke the barrier, immediately warmed by the air. Somehow, I'd gotten turned around while underwater, as I was now facing the dock with Sam directly behind me. "Hey," I breathed, swimming over to where she was still treading water.

"Hey," she said, a smile glued to her face. "How's it feel being spontaneous?"

"Not very good." The water had stopped stinging, but my limbs ached, and I felt exhausted despite the minimal exertion required to tread water. "I can't do this for long. How do your legs feel?"

"You tell me," she said, extending a slender leg and rubbing it playfully against mine. I gasped, nearly swallowing a mouthful of water. "I _meant_, are they still numb?"

"Nah," she said with a small shrug. "They never were. I just didn't wanna wait forever for you to join me."

I shouldn't have been surprised, yet I was. "Sam!"

"Hey, we made an agreement, remember? This is for your benefit. You'll see."

_Yeah, I had better see_, I thought, flicking water in her face. _Right about now, my aching limbs, throbbing lungs and burning skin disagree_.

She returned the gesture, more aggressively, of course, and I found myself sputtering and choking on water and weeds and God knew what else, and I again chastised myself for having made an agreement with the she-devil. What I didn't stop to consider, however, was that, since we had made the agreement, I hadn't once pondered my future.

**A/N: Well, here it is - the first full chapter!**

**Thank you **_**so much**_** to those of you who read the prologue, submitted reviews, put the story on alert and/or added it to your favorites. Seriously, you can't imagine how flattered I am.**

**I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. It was a bit emotional for me, writing Freddie's thoughts on life after iCarly, because I know that there will be a time when this fabulous show must end, and my feelings on that kind of parallel some of Freddie's thoughts.**

**Anyway, thank you again for taking the time to read this! I hope to update within a few weeks, but I'm still very unsure of the next chapter, and I am **_**super anal**_** when it comes to my writing!**

**In the meantime, Happy Holidays, everyone! Eat lots of good food, exchange tons of gifts and, most importantly, enjoy the time with your loved ones - you'll never know when it might be the last holiday you'll get to spend with them!**


	3. Chapter Two

_Disclaimer: So, you probably know that I don't own iCarly, right? And that there will be swearing and sexuality and other immoral behaviors represented within this story? Good. That being said, it's probably not necessary for me to include a disclaimer at the beginning of EVERY chapter._

_**Chapter Two**_

With a sigh, I dropped my head to the table, running my fingers through tousled hair. "Sam, you need to focus. We made an agreement, _remember_?"

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, the sound muted by the walls of the refrigerator. Her upper body was immersed, a pair of shapely legs and the occasional scoff the only evidence she hadn't escaped to Narnia via the icebox.

"You're wasting your time," I informed her. "And mine. You're not gonna find ham in there. Or Fat Cakes. Or Peppy Cola. Actually, you're not gonna find _any_ of your dietary staples in there."

With an exaggerated groan, she extracted herself from the refrigerator, slamming the door with such force that the appliance wobbled from side to side. "Do you seriously eat _tofu_?" Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

I lifted my head to glare at her. "Not by choice. Now, if you're satisfied that our food doesn't appeal to you, sit." I gestured to the chair opposite mine. "And start reading." The table was covered in folders, stacks of notes and several text books. _My _books, of course. As a "present" for my 18th Birthday, Sam had used _hers_ to create hundreds of papier-mâché swans with which she'd decorated my car, my locker and my bedroom. I was _still_ finding the stupid things. Needless to say, my fear of the freaks of nature, with their elongated necks and pointy beaks, had grown exponentially. I shuddered at the mental image.

"I can't focus without food," she whined, tearing me from my thoughts. "Just let me run across the hall for two seconds to grab something to eat, and then we c-"

"You don't need food to study," I snapped, exasperated. "And you agreed that we'd study for Calculus, so _sit_, Puckett."

She crossed the small room and stood before me, arms folded across her chest and chin lifted in defiance. "Actually, _Benson_, I don't recall there being any mention of these jank study sessions when we made our agreement."

"Nor was there any mention of breaking and entering at the Woodland Park Zoo so _you_ could taunt the jaguars with raw meat and a water pistol, but what were we doing at 1:00 this morning?"

The scowl vanished, replaced by wide-eyed enthusiasm. "Dude, did you _see_ the size of those fangs?"

At times, Sam was easily distracted. I had learned to use that weakness, one of only a handful, to my advantage. On this particular occasion, however, I struggled to maintain a harsh façade, but her ardor was catching, and I sensed my mouth twitching at the corners.

She sat then, if you could call it that. She hugged her knees to her chest and mashed a pair of bare feet against the table, her chair tipping precariously on two legs.

"Uh, we _do _eat here, you know."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Like Crazy doesn't bleach the table before every meal."

She was right, and so I ignored her, focusing instead on the wall of text before me. We were silent for a few minutes, me reading, Sam pretending to examine my notes.

Abruptly, she broke the silence. "So, when can we go to the Fair?" She had been pestering me to take her to the Snohomish Fair in Granite Falls, a relatively small town about an hour from Seattle. She insisted, of course, that attending the Fair and participating in Fair-like activities would be "beneficial to my mental state." I was beginning to think, however, that Sam was benefiting most from our excursions.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing the ache between my temples to dissipate. "I told you, we can go to the Fair as soon as you master derivatives." To accentuate my point, I shoved the Calculus book across the table.

She shifted her gaze to the ceiling and growled deep in her throat. "So, what you're saying is, if I can prove to you that I get this chiz" - she swiped a hand across my notes - "we can go to the Fair?"

I shrugged. "I don't see why not."

She was silent for several moments, eyes trained at the ceiling, as though she were waging an inner battle. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she closed her eyes, took a shaky breath and spoke in a rush, her words nearly tumbling over one another. "A derivative is a function that gives the tangent of a graph at a given point, measuring the rate of change of 'y' with respect to 'x'. The derivative of any number is zero. The derivative of the function, 'y equals a x to the nth power' is 'd y by d x equals a n x to the power of n minus one'."

I stared at her, my eyes narrowed in shock and suspicion, her words hitting me like a slap to the face.

"The derivative of a sine is the cos-"

"Hold up," I demanded, flabbergasted, as I clamped a hand to her mouth.

She shifted an icy gaze to mine before licking the inside of my palm and then forcing my hand to the table. "Yes?" she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Well, w-when, I mean, why," I stuttered, searching the room for some indication that she'd stored the information where she could readily view it. Seeing nothing, I lifted a shoulder questioningly. "_How_ do you know that?"

"Which part?"

"Any of it. _All_ of it!"

"I guess I'm not as clueless as you think I am. Surprise." Her tone was lethal.

"Yeah, but. . ."

"But what?" she asked, her eyes flashing. "School doesn't interest me. It doesn't mean I'm some idiot."

"No, I nev-"

"And if you ever mention this to anyone, _anyone_," she continued, hands flailing aggressively, "I will personally see to it that you spend the remainder of your life self-catheterizing."

"I won't, b-"

"_Drop it_, Fredward."

Noting her expression, I knew better than to press the matter. "Fine," I relented, exhaling heavily. "Consider it dropped."

"Good." She stood then, her features softening, and the chair clattered noisily to the linoleum. "Time for the Fair, then?"

I nodded slowly, my lingering astonishment numbing my reflexes. "Guess so." Sam was smart. That, I knew. She'd always been smart. But her wealth of knowledge on subjects so far removed from her interests never ceased to amaze me. She was an enigma.

Shaking my head, I followed suit and climbed to my feet, filling my backpack with an assortment of books while Sam gathered my notes. I knew that my mom would be angry with me for choosing to go to the Fair in lieu of studying for finals and that she'd probably assail me with one of her 'Sam is a bad influence' lectures, so I left my backpack and the sheath of notes on top of the table to serve as a not-so-subtle suggestion that I'd studied for at least a little while after school.

Sam retrieved her own backpack from where she'd left it next to the refrigerator and followed me to the foyer. I grabbed my keys from their appointed peg and set the alarm before we slipped noiselessly into the hall.

"Think Carly's home?" she asked, pausing at the door to the Shays' apartment.

"Nope. Biology review."

Nodding, she turned and headed for the elevator, and I followed closely behind. In a sense, I was relieved that we wouldn't have to respond to the inevitable question of what we'd been doing since school. If I tried explaining to Carly that I was "tutoring" Sam (though apparently Sam could tutor me), she'd think I was lying. And then I'd have to explain the entire agreement, and I wasn't prepared to do that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Carly would freak if she found out about the anxiety attacks, and she'd probably demand that I seek professional help and, to be honest, I kind of liked pretending it wasn't a big deal.

Besides, I was dealing with it. In a way. Carly, like me, would try to seek logical explanations for my anxiety. Sam, on the other hand, ridiculed my irrationality and used brash, occasionally brutal, methods of strengthening my resolve. And, for reasons I wasn't able to grasp, it seemed like it was sort of working. Part of me wondered, though, if I was merely distracted by her presence. Amidst school, iCarly, our "jank" study sessions and the heinous activities she insisted I'd benefit from, Sam didn't grant me much of an opportunity to contemplate the future. On occasion, she'd even spent the night, claiming my bed, of course, while I got cozy with the floor. She adjusted the settings of my orthopedic mattress to her liking, drooled on my Galaxy Wars pillowcase and left crumbs in my sheets, but I guess I didn't mind terribly, because I never considered asking her to leave.

She was quiet until we had reached the parking lot. Shielding her eyes with one hand, she glanced at me. "So, where is the hunk o' junk?"

"The hunk o' junk? Remind me, Samantha - what are _you_ driving these days?"

She shrugged, a light breeze blowing long strands of hair into her eyes. "Why should I drive when I have a personal chauffeur?" Brushing the hair from her eyes, she flashed me a condescending grin.

"A personal chauffeur whose car is a hunk o' junk," I clarified.

She appeared to consider this for a moment, her head cocked to one side. "Pretty much."

I gave her a playful bump with my shoulder, and she mimicked the motion with her backpack, nearly sending me to the ground. "You know, if you keep dissin' her," I warned, "you won't have a personal chauffeur for long."

She rolled her eyes, amusement pulling at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, I beg to differ." Spotting the vehicle wedged between a motorcycle and a busted convertible, she jogged ahead of me.

As I approached the vehicle, she was bouncing impatiently from one foot to the other and jiggling the door handle. "It's locked," I informed her.

"Yeah, no chiz. Ladies and gentlemen, Freddie Benson, master of the obvious," she deadpanned, gesturing dramatically.

Ignoring her, I unlocked both of our doors and occupied the driver's seat. Tossing her backpack to the floor, she slid beside me, lifting her arms so that I could reach across her to fasten the seatbelt. That was our thing. If I didn't fasten it for her, she'd refuse to wear it, and then I'd be issued a citation. And yes, I knew from experience.

"So, what makes it a 'her'?"

"What do you mean?" I was only half listening as I silently coaxed the engine to start.

"Well, you called the car a 'her.' What makes it feminine?"

When the engine sputtered to life, I gave the steering wheel an affectionate pat. "I don't know. Doesn't every guy refer to his car as a female?" I replied, easing the car into the overcrowded streets of Seattle.

She pressed her feet, now clad in florescent yellow flip flops, to the dash and lifted a shoulder questioningly. "Beats me."

When we had escaped the confines of the city and were heading north on I-5, the traffic thinned considerably, and Sam leaned forward to fumble with the radio dials. She flipped from one station to the next, finally settling for a rap "song" I couldn't begin to name. As she relaxed against the seat, she nodded in my direction. "You drive like my grandmother."

"Uh, your grandmother drives like a lunatic," I reminded her.

She was silent for a moment, contemplating this. "Okay. So, you drive like _your_ grandmother, then."

That wasn't true. Not entirely. I mean, I was driving _over_ the speed limit. Sort of. And what did she expect, anyway? My mom had taught me to drive. If it were up to her, speeds would never exceed thirty miles per hour.

"You know, we'd get there a whole lot faster if you'd let me drive," she continued.

I stole a glance at her, and she extended her lower lip in a pout. Cute but not _that _cute. "Not gonna happen."

The playful pout transformed into a frown. "Why not?" she demanded. "I can drive!"

"Sam, if your real-life driving is anything like your go-kart driving, I'll pass."

She groaned, raking a hand through her hair. "That was one time!"

"Yeah, 'cause we were _banned_ from the track!"

Sam had treated her go-kart as if it were a bumper car, chasing me mercilessly around the track. She had also taken "short-cuts" across the landscaping and nearly severed an employee's foot when she failed to brake at the finish line. Not only had _she _been banned, but she had blamed the demolished flower beds and uprooted bushes on me, and so _I_ had been banned as well.

"Whatever," she mumbled. "That place was jank."

I chose not to respond. Winning arguments was at the top of Sam's skill set, and this particular argument wasn't worth the effort. Of course, she misinterpreted my silence as non-verbal affirmation of her point and, therefore, maintained a satisfied expression for the remainder of the trip.

When we arrived at the Fairgrounds, the sun was beginning to set, and the lot was nearly full. Luckily, I was able to maneuver the car into a spot near the entrance. As I locked the vehicle and pocketed my keys, Sam grew impatient, grabbing at my elbow. To irritate her, I slowed my pace and glanced at my phone, noting three missed calls and seven text messages from my mother.

"Hurry," she whined, her elbow locked with mine. "If I have to pick you up, I will."

I stopped walking and shifted my gaze to her. "Really, Sam?"

She stared at me, unblinking, but I could tell when she was preparing to lunge, and I gracefully sidestepped, capturing her wrists and securing them behind her back. She gave a strangled cry and slammed her heel against my toes. When I yelped and released her, she smiled smugly. "That's what you get for trying to outsmart me. Now hurry up, or I'll stomp on your other foot."

Despite the satisfaction I was gleaning from her annoyance, I allowed her to drag me to the ticket booth. A teenager, probably younger than us, with red hair and freckles was operating the stand. The tickets were predictably overpriced but, when the girl asked how many I wanted, Sam eyed me expectantly, and so I begrudgingly asked for two.

She forced me to accompany her on an assortment of rides. Some were nauseating, some looked as though they'd been assembled with alarming haste, and some were simply terrifying. The first ride we tackled was the Ferris Wheel. Sam thought it'd be funny to rock the car from side to side while we were stopped at the very top. I envisioned myself vomiting over the side of the car and showering the people waiting below and decided it'd probably be best if I closed my eyes until we reached the ground. After that, we rode the Terminator, and she insisted it would be "beneficial to my mental state" if I held my hands over my head as we were repeatedly turned upside down. I disagreed. We reached a compromise, Sam elevating one of my hands with her own, me gripping the lap bar with the other. And then she decided it was an absolute necessity that we ride the Tilt-A-Whirl four consecutive times. _Four_. And we couldn't simply "enjoy" the ride. No, we had to make the car spin as fast as physics would allow. On one particularly vicious "whirl," gravity lifted Sam from the seat and chucked her into my side. The air was forced from my lungs, and I was almost certain I'd lose the kettle corn we had shared. She thought it was hilarious. In the Fun House, she declared that my warped reflection was an improvement on my normal appearance, and I learned that she was mildly freaked by clowns (though she pretended not to be), a tidbit I quietly pocketed for future use. Lastly, to my absolute horror, we had to ride a gigantic swan-boat in some lame version of the Tunnel of Love. I was antsy the entire time, and Sam shouted obscenities at the frisky couple ahead of us, and it was basically a disaster. But Sam was amused, and she giggled incessantly and, for the briefest of moments, I almost thought her amusement was worth my discomfort. _Almost_.

Eventually, when we'd ridden nearly every ride and I could barely stand, I stumbled to a small bench and collapsed against the wooden slats, dropping my head to my hands.

She sat beside me, curling one leg beneath the other. "You don't look so hot."

Despite my condition, I lifted my head to peer at her. "You mean, as opposed to how _hot_ I usually look?"

She shook her head, amusement lighting her features. "Dream on."

Closing my eyes, I willed the dizziness to subside, my heartbeat to slow and the queasiness to abate. It felt like the first time I'd had too much to drink, when Carly, Sam and I had stolen beer and vodka from Pam's "secret" stash (AKA the stash she kept in the refrigerator, tucked behind a hand-written sign that read, 'Pam's Secret Stash'). I had puked in someone's pansies that time. Sam had found this absurdly coincidental and, therefore, stuck pansies in my locker every day for an entire month, often with notes that read things like, 'Pansies for a pansy' or 'What kind of a pansy can't hold his liquor?' See, she thought I'd been too drunk to remember how she kneeled beside me at the side of the road and rubbed my back as I drenched her neighbor's garden or how she helped me brush my teeth when I insisted on maintaining my bedtime ritual or that she sat at the edge of my bed and made silly conversation about Galaxy Wars until I had fallen asleep, but she was wrong. I remembered. I just pretended not to. It was easier that way.

"You need something?" She nudged me in the side, interrupting my thoughts.

"Water?"

"Sure." She jumped to her feet and shrugged her shoulders expectantly. "Wallet?"

"Don't you ever have money?" I asked, though I removed the wallet from my pocket and tossed it to her.

"I do. I just prefer spending yours." Of course. Silly me for asking. I watched her feet as she hurried in the opposite direction, her sandals making soft slapping sounds against the pavement.

When she returned several minutes later, she was carrying a bottle of water in one hand and a plate of fried dough in the other. My wallet was jammed between her teeth. Unclenching her jaw, she dropped the wallet to my lap and handed the bottle to me. I quickly downed the water, the nausea dissipating almost immediately.

"You want some?" she asked, reclaiming her spot beside me and waving the plate of dough beneath my nose.

"As appealing as _fried lard_ sounds right about now, I'm gonna have to pass." She shrugged and shoved a sugar-coated wad into her mouth. Specks of powdered sugar dusted her shorts, and I brushed absentmindedly at them. "So, I'm curious. How is this" - I gestured broadly - "improving my mental state?"

She chewed quietly as she considered this. "That depends. Have you been thinking about your future?"

Well. . . _no_. Because I was focusing on my gag reflex. That didn't count, though. Did it? I chose not to respond. I didn't need to, really. She knew.

"Guess it's working, huh?"

"You're a clever one," I teased, shaking my head.

"Oh, don't pretend like you're not having fun," she admonished, finishing the last of the fried dough and handing the empty plate to me.

"Actually, I think I was having more fun studying."

She rolled her eyes and flicked the plate, sending a cloud of sugar to my lap. "Calculus _would_ get you all hot and bothered."

"You know, speaking of _Calculus_. . ."

"Don't." She raised a finger pointedly. "That's our secret, remember?"

"So, does that mean I should nix the 'Are You Smarter than Sam Puckett' bit from the next iCarly?" I asked with a satisfied smirk.

"Benson?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut the hell up." She pressed the sugar-coated finger to my lips, and it felt as though she had zapped me with a zillion volts of electricity, the sensation extending from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, and my body reacted in the violent manner reserved solely for Sam. The dizziness resumed, clouding my vision, something akin to butterflies fluttering inside of me, and I was fairly certain the Earth had shifted on its axis. Struck with the sudden and astonishing urge to take her finger between my teeth and remove the sugar with the tip of my tongue, I tried desperately to focus my attention elsewhere, but my eyes were locked to hers.

She felt it then. Either felt it or saw it in my eyes. And she yanked her finger from my lips as though she'd been burned.

I averted my gaze and, breathing heavily, willed my heart rate to resume a healthy pace. _Why does everything have to be so complicated? _I wondered. I was desperate to make sense of our "relationship," to define what I felt for her.

She was irritating, but it kind of bothered me in a way I couldn't name when she'd irritate someone other than me.

She laughed at my discomfort, but her laughter was strangely comforting.

She was my tomboyish friend who opened beer bottles with her teeth and burped the alphabet, but she was sort of incredibly sexy.

I wanted to smack her senseless yet make her feel _so _very good.

I couldn't credit my reaction to hormones. Not entirely. I mean, sure, I was hormonal, but I could say with absolute certainty that the Earth never moved when anyone else touched me. Like the other anomalies that occurred in Sam's presence, I chose to attribute it to adrenaline. Her pheromones elicited a nervous reaction in me that was absolutely unparalleled.

Running my fingers through my hair, I shifted uncomfortably beside her. We were silent for several moments, both of us feigning interest in the groups of people passing before us. Finally, she cleared her throat and stood. I glanced at her but, as always, her expression was unreadable.

"You wanna play a game?"

I nodded slowly, forcing a relaxed expression. "Sure." Hesitantly, she extended a hand to me, and I took it gingerly, careful to appear unenthusiastic. She pulled me to my feet, and I tossed the empty plate into a trash can before we merged with the steady flow of Fair-goers. As we passed one booth after another, I examined them, searching for a game simple enough that I wouldn't embarrass myself.

"I wonder if Zoltar's here," she murmured after a few minutes, tugging gently at my shirt sleeve.

"Zoltar?"

Her eyes widened as she bunched the fabric in the palm of her hand. "Um, yeah? The fortune-teller slash wish-granter?"

I shrugged.

She gave an exaggerated gasp and stopped walking. "Freddie. _Big_? Come on. It's classic Tom Hanks!"

Ah, of course. A movie in which the main character is a child trapped in an adult's body who has a trampoline in his apartment and plays with toys for a living. Not surprising that it'd appeal to Sam. "Gotcha." I uncurled her fingers from my sleeve and resumed walking. "You know," I informed her, "that's probably something that was created for the movie. It's not real."

"Yes, it is," she protested. "I've seen 'em on E-Bay." Stopping abruptly, as easily distracted as ever, she pointed to a small booth to the left of us. "How about that one?" The booth was manned by a lanky teenager, greasy hair hanging in his eyes. The game was the type where you have to knock a small group of bottles to the ground using a ball or some other object. It looked simple enough, so I nodded my agreement.

As we approached the counter, the sleazy guy stared directly at Sam. Not at her face, of course. No, to the bare skin below her shorts, the small amount of cleavage visible above the neckline of her tank top.

Annoyed, I waved a couple of bills in front of his face, but he barely acknowledged me as he snatched the money from my grip in exchange for three bean bags. "Three shots," he barked. When he spoke, I realized he was missing several of his teeth.

Sam, ever oblivious to the effect she had on the opposite sex, leaned against the counter, affording him the opportunity to stare unabashedly down the front of her shirt. "Think you can manage this one on your own?" she teased.

"Yes," I muttered defensively, preparing for my first shot. Unfortunately, I was so distracted by the creep - 'Al,' according to his nametag - and his unveiled admiration of Sam that I missed entirely. Anticipating a snide remark, I shot a warning glance in the blonde's direction, but she remained uncharacteristically silent. With my second shot, I nicked one of the bottles, but it wasn't enough to knock them to the ground. With my third and final shot, I whacked the group of bottles squarely in the center. Two toppled immediately to the ground while the remaining bottle teetered dramatically from side to side before repositioning itself. "Aw, come on!" I cried, gesturing angrily. "What is it, a trick bottle?"

Al, still staring unceremoniously at Sam, grinned and ignored the question. "You wanna try?"

"Yeah, I'll give it a shot." Right. Like Sam would _ever_ pass on an opportunity to make me look like an ass. She smacked my shoulder. "Gimme your wallet."

I was ready to object when Al placed a bean bag in her expectant palm. "No charge for pretty ladies."

She lifted a brow derisively but closed her fingers around the bean bag. As she bent forward to prepare for her shot, Al leaned against the edge of the counter, cocking his head to the side in order to gain visual access to her backside. I had the overwhelming urge to physically remove the two teeth he had remaining in his head and/or wrap my arms protectively around Sam, though she was probably the last person on Earth in need of the minimal protection I could offer. Choosing instead to remain composed, I focused on her lackadaisical stance and the way she carelessly tossed the bag. It collided with the bottles and, not surprisingly, they toppled immediately to the ground. She turned to flash me a satisfied grin.

I said nothing but gave her the dirtiest look I could muster.

"Aw," she teased, grabbing the front of my shirt and dragging me closer to her, "don't be mad." I fought to escape her grasp, but she wound her fingers in the fabric, and I stumbled against her. "Just think of this as yet another thing I'm better than you at," she whispered, her breath fanning hotly against my neck.

I sensed the blood coloring my cheeks, but I wasn't sure if it was due to my irritation or if it was a response to her proximity and the fact that she was pressed to the edge of the counter, her back arched and the lower half of her body entangled with mine, her fingers clawing against me where she clutched my shirt. "Thanks for undermining my manhood," I muttered.

She tipped her head to the side and smiled coyly. "What manhood?"

"Funny," I deadpanned, weaving my fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling.

She gave a surprised squeak before she brought her foot to my shin. The pain radiated to my hip, but I refused to acknowledge it, and this served to further agitate her. When she lifted her leg to repeat the motion, I deftly blocked it. "Guess you're not better at _everything_."

She narrowed her eyes. "Here's an idea. Why don't you g-"

I became suddenly aware that someone was snapping their fingers in my face. And hers. They were Al's grubby fingers.

"What?" we demanded simultaneously.

"Pick your prize. People are waiting." He gestured to the small crowd that had gathered behind us.

"Sorry," I mumbled sheepishly as I untangled myself from Sam.

She was unapologetic as she scanned the barrage of toys, ultimately choosing a stuffed pig. Al produced a duplicate from beneath the counter and handed it to her without a second glance. Her feistiness had probably changed his opinion of her. _Good_, I thought.

"For you," she said, handing the stuffed animal to me. "You know, to serve as a constant reminder of my dominance over you." It was bright pink and had a misshapen snout and crooked eyes. It was ridiculous yet somehow endearing, and I smiled in spite of myself.

"Thanks."

She waved a hand dismissively as we stepped aside to make room for the people who'd been waiting.

"So," I said, tucking the pig beneath my arm, "are you ready to leave?"

She yawned and stretched dramatically, the hem of her shirt lifting to expose her belly button. "_So _ready. But buy me some cotton candy first."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, since you asked so nicely. . ." I followed her as she cut between a couple of booths to circumvent the crowd.

As we searched for a vendor selling cotton candy, she tugged at the pig's crimped tail. "We should probably name him."

"_Him_? What makes it a 'him'?" I joked, mimicking her sentiments from earlier.

"Oh, shut it. If your hunk o' junk can be a girl, this little guy" - she poked at it for emphasis - "can be a boy." Her inclination to assign a gender and a name to a stuffed animal was kind of adorable and a bit girly and definitely not Sam-like. Not the Sam she presented most often, at least. She viewed those adorable, girly qualities as weaknesses, and so she typically hid them below the surface.

"Okay," I conceded, "it can be a boy. What'd you have in mind?"

She thought for a moment, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally, she turned to me, excitement lighting her features. "Bacon."

"Bacon. You're serious?"

She nodded enthusiastically, her bangs brushing her eyebrows.

"Gross, Sam. I'm not naming him _Bacon_."

"Why not?" she demanded. "He's a pig. Bacon comes from pigs."

"Why would you want to associate a cute stuffed animal with something you _eat_?" I shook the toy in her face, and she swatted at it.

"I won him. I get to pick the name."

"You gave him to _me_," I reminded her.

She stopped walking and gestured to the pavement. "Dude, do you wanna taste gravel?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Do _you_ want cotton candy?"

She sighed and resumed walking. "Can't we have both?"

I ignored her as we approached a stand that had candy apples lining its countertops and enormous bags of cotton candy suspended from the ceiling. I purchased a bag, and she inhaled it as we made our way to the parking lot. In her defense, she did at least offer some to me. After she finished the last of the sticky candy, she tossed the empty bag to the ground.

"Uh, do you know how much the fine is for littering?" I asked as I retrieved the bag and deposited it in a trash receptacle not five feet away.

"Do _you_?" she countered.

I didn't. Not exactly. But that was beside the point. "It's high."

"Mm, how delightfully vague of you." She yawned again, rubbing her eyes. "I'm freaking exhausted." We had reached the car, and I quickly unlocked the doors. Once Sam was seated beside me, seatbelt fastened (thanks to me), she curled against the seat and closed her eyes. "Wake me when we're close," she murmured.

She was asleep within minutes, and the sound of her rhythmic breathing coupled with the hypnotic pattern of the heavy raindrops that had begun pelting the windshield made me sleepy as well. I struggled to remain focused as my own lids threatened to droop. When the Seattle skyline became visible, I sighed gratefully and reached across the seat, shaking her gently. "Wake up, Sam."

She groaned and covered her face, jamming a thumb between her teeth.

"Hey," I called, shaking her more forcefully, my eyes trained at the slick pavement. "Wake up, thumb-sucker."

At that, she sat forward and dropped her hand (and the offending thumb) to her lap. "I don't suck my thumb."

"Yeah, you do. Sometimes. Mine, too."

"I do _not_!" she cried, growing defensive.

I snickered at the outburst. "Actually, you _do_. Remember when Carly made us watch that hideous movie about the girl in love with her therapist and you fell asleep?"

"How could I forget? I nearly died of boredom."

"You were sucking my thumb then."

She wrapped her arms across her chest and shifted her gaze to the highway. "You lie."

I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. "Wanna bet?"

She ignored me, furthering my satisfaction. It wasn't often that Sam wasn't armed with a scathing reply. As we approached her neighborhood, she examined her nails, picking at flecks of chipped polish. Her neighborhood wasn't the nicest in Seattle, but it definitely wasn't the worst. The houses were small but surprisingly well-kept. You wouldn't find hobos drinking from paper bags or prostitutes adorning the corners. Sam _hated_ being there, though I suspected it had more to do with her mother's frequent absences than the area itself.

"Think your mom's home?"

She chuckled humorlessly. "What do you think? She's dating this plumber now, so I'd imagine he's probably - "

"Sam," I interjected, "if you're gonna make a joke about his snake, please refrain."

A smile stretched across her face. "You know me too well."

I shook my head as I maneuvered the car to the curb in front of her house. "Guess so." For a moment or two, we remained silent, me drumming my fingertips against the steering wheel, Sam fingering the hem of her shirt.

"Well," she started, breaking the silence, "thanks." She grabbed her backpack with one hand and wrapped her fingers around the door handle with the other. "You know, for taking me."

"Well. . .thanks for schooling me in Calculus."

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Just remember. . ."

"Yeah, yeah." I raised my hands in mock surrender. "My lips are sealed."

"Good." She opened the door and stepped into the rain. It had increased its tempo, and the steady stream caused damp tangles of hair to cling to her cheeks. Droplets of water ran along her neck and disappeared behind the neckline of her shirt, and I forced my gaze to remain affixed to hers. Pulling her hair into a messy ponytail, she nodded at the backset. "Tell Bacon I said, 'good night'."

I glanced at the pig, tucked into a corner of the seat. "I never agreed to that name."

"Like it matters." She had to raise her voice to be heard over the rain. "It's not up to you."

"You can call him whatever you please. _I _refuse to call him that."

She nodded, arching a thin brow. "Yeah, we'll see. Night." Slinging the backpack to her shoulder, she gave a small wave before closing the door.

"Night, Sam."

I watched as she sprinted across the lawn to the safety of her porch and waited until she had unlocked the door and thrown a second wave over her shoulder before I shifted gears and eased the car from the curb. On the way to my apartment, I struggled to categorize the friendship we shared. I _needed_ to categorize it for my sanity. But every moment I spent with her was further complicating a relationship that was already infinitely complex.

To others, Sam maintained that we weren't friends, that we didn't even _like_ each other. Externally, I often agreed. But it wasn't true. We _were_ friends. Really close friends, actually. And we _did_ like each other. To what degree, I was seeking to comprehend. But neither of us was willing to acknowledge that, to shift the basis of a relationship that provided such familiarity. And so we were reduced to a myriad of denials, fueled by our fear. Denial that we cared for one another. Denial that, over the course of our relationship, something highly volatile had sparked between us. Denial that our individual strengths complemented the other's weaknesses, as though we were disjointed pieces of a greater whole.

_What would Sam do_? I wondered. _She'd_ never dwell on things essentially out of her control, right? And she'd never attempt to shape something that lacked definitive structure. No, she'd let it run its course, molding _her _as needed. _Why the hell can't I do the same_? I realized I was making myself anxious and decided that I needed to clear my mind of Sam, and so I mentally reviewed for my Physics final, pondered the technical aspects of the extravaganza we were planning for the final web show and practiced the argument I'd use to convince my mom that monthly visits to Massachusetts would not be necessary.

It wasn't until I was home and struggling to sleep, a disfigured pig eyeing me from his spot atop my bedside table, that I made a startling realization. I had just used components of my _future _as a means to clear my head. How something that had tortured my mind for months was providing sudden comfort in contrast to the inner turmoil Sam was causing was beyond the realm of rationality. And it terrified me.

"Bacon," I whispered, the sound deafening in the stillness of the room, "I think I'm in trouble."

_**A/N: Heyyy, guys! So, this will probably be my last author's note for a while, because I hate to detract from the storyline, but I had to apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. It's been written since the beginning of the year, but I wasn't happy with it, so I tweaked and re-tweaked it a billion times. I'm okay with it now. I think. ;)**_

_**Next chapter = Prom. And I don't think it'll be your typical iCarly/Sam and Freddie Prom story, so I hope you'll decide to check it out.**_

_**In other news, how incredible is it that iCarly won for Best Television Show at the KCAs for the third consecutive year? And that Jennette won for favorite sidekick? I think I may have definitely screamed to an embarrassing level during the show.**_

_**Lastly, who else is excited for iOMG? Less than one week, my friends! I. Can't. Freaking. Wait.**_

_**Anyway, thanks again for stopping by! Later.**_


End file.
